Uncovered (Dev and Lee Book 4) (3 page)

Again, she’s silent. “Eileen?” I say finally.

“I did everything I could. He’s gone. What else can we do?”

I exhale past the phone. “I think the only thing we can do is remember that he’s our son and try to love him.”

“Not you and me, Harold,” she says. “You’re not being any help at all. You just want to let things go and trust that they’ll all work out in the end.”

Hurt and drunk. Hurt and drunk.
“It causes a lot less stress on the heart.”

“Yes, well, that’s how you approached our marriage, and look how that turned out. Do you want our son to go the same way?”

I grit my teeth. “I won’t take the blame for our marriage. Not more than half of it, anyway.” I don’t add: which one of us still relates better to our son?

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I’m just so—I want him to see how unhappy he’s going to be.”

“Why don’t we let him judge that?” Just as we ourselves judged our own happiness in the face of her mother’s icy disapproval.

“He’s still going through a phase.” Before I can respond, her voice cracks. “But he can’t take back the things he’s said.”

“Eileen,” I say, “he’s hurt just as much as you are. If you could just see that…”

“If he wants to show me,” she says, and now she’s just crying into the phone.

“Hey,” I say softly. “Hey. Look, it’s going to be okay. Hey.”

It takes a few more heys to get her to talk again, and then she hurries the words out. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to break down like that. It’s…”

“You need your sleep.” And so do I.

“That’s a good idea.”

“Are you in bed?” I ask only out of concern. Any prurient interest I have in Eileen is only in my memories.

She sighs. “I’m on the sofa. I’m going to bed now.”

“Drink some water.”

“Goodnight, Harold.”

“Goodnight.”

She doesn’t hang up. After a moment, she says, “Thank you.” And then there’s maybe a moment when I’d have a chance to answer, but I stay silent, and the line goes dead.

I put my phone back on the nightstand. Lacing paws behind my head, I stare up at the ceiling. I wonder if Wiley is sleeping tonight. He’s in the arms of someone who cares about him, and that probably helps. I hope he never has to learn to go to sleep without it.

The clock reads 12:47. I close my eyes.

Chapter 1 – Role Play (Dev)

As nice as it is to get a private plane to go to Crystal City to film a commercial for Strongwell beer, part of me wishes I was on the other plane, the team plane flying out to Hellentown. Here on my own, I keep replaying the scenes from the previous day’s loss in my head—the fox, number 83, snarling “faggot” at me; the tackles we missed; passes going a whisker’s breadth past my claws—and I know that on the team plane, the coaches will have the guys pumped up for the week of practice and the first game of the playoffs. Sure, we lost, but thanks to the quirks of scheduling, we get another chance at the same team, back in their home stadium this time, where we beat them earlier in the year. And this game, the first time a Chevali team has been in the playoffs in over a decade, will be more important than the last by a factor of like a zillion. We lost last week and we’re still playing. Lose this week and our season is over. Win three more games and we’ll be champions of the UFL.

Even though I try to imagine Coach Samuelson’s inspirational speech as we’re taking off, I still can’t replace the camaraderie that’s sure to be on that plane, the sense of optimism as we take off. I’d be sitting next to Charm, the big stallion I room with on the road, maybe near my linebacking partners Gerrard and Carson, and we’d be buzzing with ideas about how to beat the guys who just beat us. I’d be part of a team, an important part, with people relying on my skills to help us all win.

Instead, I’m in a tiny chartered jet with our recently-added receiver Lightning Strike, a cheetah who has lived up to his name in the three games he’s been with us. He’s dyed his fur blue and gold—the Strongwell beer colors—and in close quarters, the dye smells pretty strongly. He sits right across the aisle from me because it’s just me and him on the plane, and during takeoff he goes into some kind of meditative zone. Once we hit cruising altitude, he turns to me with, “Okay, here’s what you need to know about being in a commercial.”

Thank God Strongwell has a rep on the plane to give me actually useful information. Charisse, a kangaroo rat in a sharp blue business suit with a gold lapel pin, greeted us when we came on board with a cheery, “Congratulations on making the playoffs.” She’s seated facing Strike, and she interrupts the cheetah before he gets to tell me any of his amazing advice (which if it’s anything like his “only eat organic plant material” advice or “don’t have sex during the season” advice, I am happier not knowing).

“Let’s just get the release forms out of the way,” she says, “and I’ll go over what’s going to happen when we touch down.” She glances at Strike, then at me, and says to me, “You’re the gay one, right?”

Before I can reply, Strike leans forward. “That’s right,” he says. “He’s gay. I’m straight.”

He says it with a smile that I would think was flirty, if he hadn’t spent all that time telling me how sex detracts from his energy level or something—I was really only half-listening. Also, I’m not thinking about that because I’m now “the gay one.” If Strike were to flirt, the girl might be interested, but I’m sitting apart from both of them now. I’m the other, the stranger, the weirdo.

“We’re both football players,” I say.

They give me almost the same odd look. “Yes,” Charisse says. “I just wanted to make sure I didn’t mix you up.”

She hands me the forms just the same as she does to him, and gives us both the same smile. Maybe I’m just thinking too much now about Lee and that Equality Now meeting he wants me to go to with the senators up in Potomac. If I feel this awkward now, how would I feel in a room full of suit-and-tie politicians talking about how gay I am? I told Lee I wouldn’t do it, and he hasn’t mentioned it in a couple days, so I’m hoping he’s dropped it. If not, it’ll be another argument. Which isn’t the end of the world, and making up afterwards is good, but lately my fox has been broody and our arguments a little sharper. I hope to God he gets that job in Yerba. I’d rather see him once a week and have him busy and happy than have him moping around every day, even if I do get to take him to bed every night.

The forms, standard publicity releases, take about five minutes to skim and sign. Strike says his agent’s vetted them, which for my money is better than having my useless ferret agent look at them. Ogleby’s equally likely to let something sketchy through as to hold up something harmless. Between putting me on the hook for more Ultimate Fit commercials and calling the press conference that forced me to address being gay, he’s got two strikes and about one frayed wire left of my patience. Lee would call that a mixed metaphor. I call it being honest. Anyway, it’s such a relief to sign papers and not worry about what I’m signing that I’m done before the experienced Strike is.

Charisse collects them and puts them into her folder. “Great,” she says. “When we land, a limo’s going to take us to the studio. We have half the day for filming, then lunch, and then if we need to pick up any shots, we have another two hours reserved after lunch. You’ll be back at the airport at five p.m. sharp to fly to Hellentown, getting in around midnight, I’m afraid.”

“There’s no curfew until Friday,” I say. “So that’s fine.”

“Great!” She smiles winningly.

Strike gives her a bright smile back. “Could we hire you to fly out to Hellentown with us?”

“Oh, I’m afraid not.” She pats her Blackberry. “I have appointments all day tomorrow. But you’ve got my full attention today.”

“Lovely.” Strike leans forward, almost purring.

“Don’t get the wrong idea,” she says. “I’m a Sabertooths fan. I think this is our year.”

“You grew up in Crystal City?” Strike asks.

“Actually over on Fox Beach, by the ocean.” Her attractive, pointed muzzle turns toward me with a smile. “Now, I know him, of course, and I’ve read about you. You’re a defensive player, right? Linebacker?”

It’s a relief to be addressed as a football player and not “that gay football player.” So I nod. “Outside linebacker.”

“Well.” She grins. “Our coyote linebacker can kick the shit out of your coyote linebacker.”

Crystal City has a pair of coyote linebackers, in fact, but I assume she means Polecki, who wears the same number #55 as Gerrard and plays his position, middle linebacker. I just grin back at her. “Maybe we’ll see.”

“You know,” Strike says, “if we end up in the Championship against the Sabretooths, I might be able to get you tickets.”

When we land and get to the limo, he sits alongside her facing me. It’s an amusing contrast; he’s huge, and has to sit either with his knees almost at chest level or his feet resting on the seat beside me. Charisse keeps a professional but amiable demeanor, and Strike just keeps edging closer to her, once picking up her tail to move it gently out of the way. The continuing flirtation sets me on edge. But Charisse takes it in stride, even returning it, and it’s none of my business anyway. I’m the gay one. So I don’t say anything, I just sit back and watch the crowded streets of Crystal City go by.

I never thought of myself as a country boy. Hell, I went to school in Hilltown, and I live in downtown Chevali, and those are both respectable cities. But Crystal City isn’t a city. It’s an unending landscape of concrete and glass and people. It’s like someone took Chevali and squeezed it down so you could fit it onto the Forester U. campus, and then put a hundred of those campuses all right next to each other. Where Chevali is low and spread out, every building in Crystal City is at least three stories, and usually four or five, and there are several clusters of skyscrapers on the horizon that look like any of them could be the downtown area. About the only thing similar to Chevali is the warm sun in winter and the range of mountains you can see to the east. We pass strip mall after strip mall, crowded with more kinds of people than I can count, gold fur and red fur and brown fur, long tails and short tails and fluffy tails, dye jobs that make Strike look restrained. I even see one species I don’t think I’ve ever seen before, a woman with a long narrow muzzle, but she’s past the window before I can look twice.

When we finally make the turn into the studio lot, I think at first that it’s another strip mall. Then we drive past building-sized posters of some TV shows I recognize, and it occurs to me that I should’ve called my actress friend Caroll while I was out here. I take out my phone, but we’re already pulling up in front of a large beige building and Charisse ushers us out of the car almost before the car’s stopped.

“Right in here,” she says, holding open a door, and I step through into another world.

It couldn’t be more different from the Ultimate Fit setup. There’s a small village inside, clusters of chairs and people walking about, constantly moving, all centered around a small stage on which approximately eight hundred lights are trained. When Charisse closes the door, no noise from outside penetrates, all the movement echoes, and my whiskers twitch with the air currents bouncing off the walls. Scents flit by me here and there: people, the sizzle of high-powered lights, and…food.

As I turn, stomach rumbling, Strike nudges me and lifts his nose toward a table stacked with edibles. Busy people run over to it, grab things, and run away again, while others just stand by it eating. “That’s the catering table,” he says.“Just help yourself if you’re hungry.”

“Is that our lunch?” A lot of the stuff on the table looks good, but it’s mostly snack food: energy bars, fruit, cookies, juice, soft drinks. There is a stack of Strongwell beer cans at one end, artfully arranged into a pyramid that makes it obvious that nobody’s taken one yet.

“Oh, no!” Charisse, standing next to us, laughs. “We’re taking you to DeLoup’s for lunch.”

Clearly, the name is supposed to mean something to me, so I nod and say, “Thanks.”

“They do this terrific goat cheese and toasted pepita salad,” Strike says.

“Do they do burgers?” I say it partly to be funny, and Strike and Charisse both laugh, but they don’t actually answer the question.

“All right,” Charisse says. “You two will be there.” She points to the stage. “We’ll call you when we’re ready for you, which should be in just a couple minutes.”

“Can I make a phone call?” I ask.

“Of course, but when they call for ‘quiet,’ you’ll have to turn the phone off, I’m afraid.” She smiles. “Otherwise it can cost us a lot of money in lost time.”

“He has a boyfriend he needs to talk to all the time,” Strike says.

Charisse’s smile doesn’t waver. “Oh, that’s sweet,” she says. “My boyfriend never calls me unless I call him first.”

“What does he do?” Strike asks.

“Excuse me.” I move off to the side to call Caroll. But it’s either too early or she’s busy, because I get her voicemail. I tell her I’m in town filming a commercial but that I’m leaving at the end of the day and wouldn’t probably have time to see her anyway unless she was on this same studio lot.

Then I call Lee, and just listening to his voice makes me feel better. I don’t mention the meeting in Potomac; I just tell him what’s been happening with the commercial so far. Even though I warn him I’ll probably have to go any minute when they’re ready for filming, he’s the one who ends up having to leave to get to lunch with Hal. “Tell him hi for me,” I say, and look around as I hang up. Nobody seems to be any nearer ready for us than they were before. Strike is still chatting up Charisse, and when she walks off to tend to something else, I join him.

“Hey,” I said, “she has a boyfriend, and I thought you weren’t interested in girls anyway.”

“I’m interested in girls,” he says, “just not sex during the season.”

He says that louder than I would have, but nobody even perks an ear nearby. I guess they hear weirder things like that in Crystal City all the time. “Anyway,” Strike goes on, “it’s always good to make people feel appreciated.”

“I guess.” I fold my arms and stand watching the spectacle. I try to figure out what any one of the people running around is doing, but they seem to be tinkering with mechanisms, checking something, then tinkering again. None of the people standing over by the catering table seems particularly concerned or in a hurry either.

Charisse reappears leading a busty female leopard with a light robe hanging open over a two-piece bikini, and a slender black wolf wearing a light robe over—well, I assume he’s wearing shorts, but the robe is cinched at the waist and I can’t really tell. “Hi, guys!” Charisse says. “This is Iva and Keith. They’re going to be in the commercial with you. Iva and Keith, I’m sure you know Lightning Strike and Devlin Miski.”

“Sure.” The wolf shakes my paw, looking up at me. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“You’re going to be putting your arms around them at the end of the commercial,” Charisse goes on, “so the director wants you to get used to some physical contact. Just put your arms around each other while you’re talking, then it’ll look more natural when we’re filming. Okay? Sound good? I have to go talk to the director, but I’ll be right back. Do you two need anything? Something to drink?”

She looks at me and Strike, and we both shake our heads. So she bustles off in the way everyone in this building seems to when they have to move, and we’re left with the two scantily-clad…actors? Models? I’m not sure.

“You ever done this before?” Keith says to me. Iva is already cozying up to Strike, standing next to him, arms around each other. He’s so much taller than her that when he looks down at her face, her cleavage is just naturally in his view too.

“Uh…” Keith’s standing close now. When Lee’s this close, his tail always brushes mine. “I mean, I’ve hugged my boyfriend, of course…”

The wolf laughs. “A commercial, I mean.”

“Oh. Just once. The Ultimate Fit one.”

He shakes his head. “Sorry, haven’t seen it. I don’t really watch sports that much. I mean, I know who you guys are. You were in the news all last month, and him…” He gestures at Strike. “He was on
Colleen
a while back.”

I’m not sure what to say to that. “So you’ve done a lot of commercials?”

“Sure.” He smiles, bright white teeth perfectly aligned. “You ever see the Sparkle Clean Shampoo ad?”

I frown. “I don’t watch a whole lot of TV…”